


Needle, Needle, Take Me Away

by crowkiiing



Category: Dangan Ronpa 3: The End of 希望ヶ峰学園 | The End of Kibougamine Gakuen | End of Hope's Peak High School, Dangan Ronpa: Another Episode
Genre: F/M, tw: abuse, tw: needles, yeah just said stuff about Nagisa I wrote
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-08-16 03:07:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8084341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowkiiing/pseuds/crowkiiing
Summary: You don't want to deal with those razor sharp tips anymore.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Nagisa my so n

A name, that's all you were. Disgusting, trash, a disappointment. Words jeer at you from the skies above, and you expect nothing more, nothing less.

A needle. Drugs. That's all it takes to go haywire, and you feel your body shaking from thoughts going into overdrive.

Endless nights. Nights that drag on, and on, and on. Nights that you want to end, you want them to end and you wished for that more than anything, more then an angel to show up, more than to meet everyone's expectations.

Days are hard. You miss out on school when you pass out on the street, useless as usual. He yells at you when you come to, his voice stereo and static, crackling in your ears.

Sometimes he'd scream, and the entire world would come crashing down again, stars in his eyes; but they aren't the gentle stars, no, they aren't. They twinkle cruelly, cold and unforgiving as they stare down at you, mocking you as your heartstrings pull taunt, but all you can splutter out is a few stuttering words.

The needle punctures your wrist again.

Words are won and lost again, all you hear is the chanting of your name. A video game, that's all it is. Hazy words float across your vision, the prison of the paper the only thing that's holding you back.

No.

No, that's not it. Not just the paper. Society in general. Adults.

Adults. Demons. Demons, who laugh as you mess up.

You are the face of failure, yet you refuse to believe that, so you shine, you shine as bright as the glints of the river when the moon of success beats down upon it, yet it all comes back to bite you again.

The needle punctures your wrist again.

Hours drag on as they carry you across the battle-field, you broken and bloody from the entire day's worth of fight, and it's just so tempting to end it all.

There's flashes of red, pink, brown, and green, and that's what you start to depend on, the flashes of colors that lurk in your shadow, concern whispering through the streets.

Yet you fight, for the colors that loved you every day, for the red that fought as fiercely as the color was bright, for the brown hat had retreated to the corner and now welcomed hate comments, for the pink that was bubbly and refused to back down. 

For the green...

You loved her.

You loved her, attracted to her as a moth was to a flame, and she _was_ a flame, the single spark that influenced the flames' whispers of a riot. 

You watched as she sped from room to room, arms working at the wheels that decorated each side of her chair, and the red would follow behind her, chattering to the pink as the brown shuffled alongside them. 

Yet, as the day starts to dip, as the hours fly away and flutter into the abyss of space, you start to worry for your well-being, for the nightmare that lurks at home, waiting to pull you back into its' claws.

The needle punctures your wrist again.

You want it to stop. Stop, stop, stop. 

There's one night when you fight back.

You kick and fight and _kick_ and _fight,_ yet rough, calloused hands seize your wrists and slam you into the floor, a pointed boot digging into your side before wires wrap around you once more, and you stare at the needle as it hovers, waiting for the wires to finish their job and fully settle. 

 There's a heart beating in your chest, and you hear it as it pounds in your ears harder than ever, and all you want it to do is stop, stop, _stop_.

You want to cry out, you want your pain to be heard in every swoop of the letter of the word that passes between your lips, yet you stayed silent, stitching your lips together as you sometimes skipped school, sometimes days on end, sometimes only a couple of hours. 

Why is there still a heart beating in your chest? You want it to come out. You want to rip it from your chest and hold it in your quaking fingers with the threatening possibility of you dropping it and it would shatter to the floor as if it's made out of _glass,_ just like your will is. 

Yet, as you pull those sleeves up to hide the blossoming bruises that were the disgusting color of an ugly purple, pull a scarf over your neck to conceal the red marks that decorated your neck, you start noticing. Noticing things, such as the hero's flinch when anyone raises an arm, the way his face sours when he catches glimpse of cigarettes or the sloshing, tawny liquid of alcohol. 

The fighter is much more harsh then she is gentle, and she has a trigger word, too- you mention it and she'll go off into a ruckus. 

The priest's words cause a chill to brush its' fingers against your back because he hates himself, maybe even more than you hate your own self- which is surprising, but all you do is offer cool words and comforts. 

The mage... the mage. Her own legs were taken away from her family, burned in a wreck of hate that destroyed her nerves- she never spoke about it, except with a simple 'my legs were merely crushed', and then she left it to that, pulling up knee-high socks, probably to cover the scars.

All of you were broken, all of you were destroyed. 

That's why you stood on the edge of the accursed building, taking deep, even breaths to calm yourself and the nerve-racking feeling racing through your body. Yet, poison meet your ears coated in a sickly-sweet lie, you turn and face her. 

Her hair is the same shade as the sugar she had layered her tongue with- sweet, bright, and entrancing. Her eyes were the blue of the sky- somethin g you'd see every day, but there's ice behind it, holding back a past of pure and utter despair. 

It just seemed like another cliché girl, but scars tie up your mouth, and the girl sets her hands on her lips. You never had much fondness for sweets, but you fall for her fabricated candy all the same. 

_**T a k e  u s  a w a y** _

_**s o i c a n w a t ch t h is** _

_**o ce a n o f de s p a i r** _

_**w a sh a way the** _

**_d e m o n s_ **

* * *

 

Why... was she hurting you? She... loved you... ** _r igh t?_**


End file.
